


The Angel's Blade

by HoodieTheEdgequeen



Category: Statera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 01:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15158957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoodieTheEdgequeen/pseuds/HoodieTheEdgequeen
Summary: A short story





	The Angel's Blade

“Dark”. That is how the Earth around him could be described. Dark in both the literal, and figurative sense. It was, after all, the last battlefield. Nobody could even remember how it came to be, just that it was there. Well, except for those that were there. But few of them remained. A samurai, over 400 years early for this time period, sat on his knees at the edge of the place. He looked over the battlefield, at the scorch marks across the ground where his fire had razed the arena, at the blood that pooled at the base of the hills, at the impressions of bodies that had long since been removed, with their imprints still remaining in the mud as a grim reminder of the Hell that the war had brought.  
They had been so close. They had killed the final piece of the puzzle, and were on the verge of freedom for their race. The freedom of Angelic kind from being prey for the Demon’s. The war had started with name calling and drunken brawls, and had evolved into a war of freedom. And they had been so close to it. The samurai could almost taste victory in that moment. He could still taste it now.  
And yet, looking over the blood stained fields before him, he could only conclude that the Creators had been right to end it. There had been too much bloodshed, too many deaths, and too long a struggle. The Creators’ enforcement of the natural order upon the world, detested as it was, was the proper thing to do in this scenario. Maybe someday, far in the future, the Angels could taste victory again. But not for a long while.  
The Samurai sighed, and pushed himself to his feet, gingerly picking up the remainder of his blade. The metal had once glinted a shining crimson, but now it was a dull scarlet, the sheen gone from the lives it had took. It was only a blade now, split in half with the handle lost. The Samurai took the blade to the center of the battlefield, where a black imprint of someone’s feet once stood, and dug a small hollow in the ground, where he lay the shattered blade to rest.  
He patted dirt over it, and using the magic of his flame, hardened the Earth around it. It would matter not, but it made him feel better about his choice. He would need the blade no longer, everything he fought for had been for naught, every person he cared for gone, so what purpose did an old Samurai have for such a tool?  
He gave a dry chuckle as he stood up, and promptly walked away.

 

The Apprentice was walking past, two hundred years later, when he spotted it out of the corner of his eye. Japan was feuding and in war, and the Apprentice was told to seek alternative resources for sword-forging by his Master. So the Apprentice strode across the ancient battlefields, from a war no one remembered. Years and years of rain and erosion had turned the hills into plains, let the blood wash away into the rivers, and let the imprints of bodies in the mud melt back into the Earth.  
And the rain brought the Broken Blade back to the surface, and the Apprentice only barely caught the glint of red metal among the dirt of the Earth. With almost no effort, he pried apart the loose dirt and unearthed the broken piece of metal. He marvelled at the modern- for his time- design of the blade, at it’s elegance and simplicity, at the lack of wear or tear upon the blade despite having been buried for a good while.  
The Apprentice returned the Broken Blade to his Master, a swordsmith himself. The Master seemed more surprised than the Apprentice.  
The Master told the Apprentice of a dream he had one night, of a strange man who asked a strange favor. The man asked the Master to design a blade that would fit his use. It would need to be strong but quick, light but powerful, and harm only when it’s user desired. The Master would’ve refused, were it not for the fire within the Strange Man’s heart. He could feel it, even within the Dream, among his skin. It was the fire of a man who could not wield normal swords, for they were too weak to hold his strength. The Master told the man that only a unique blade, a nodachi, could suit his needs. The Man bowed, and requested the blade be made. The Master agreed, for it would be a shame to let such a fine swordsman go without a proper tool.  
Upon awakening, the Master had spent three days and two nights designing the blade, inscribing instructions for creation upon a sheet of parchment, and a diagram that displayed the blade, down to the number of seconds upon a grindstone to sharpen it. On the third night, upon sleeping once more, the Master saw the man again, and handed him the paper he had so dutifully crafted. The man thanked him greatly, and disappeared. The Master awoke to find the parchment he had crafted remaining in his possession, with a single difference; a fingerprint, not his own, in the smudged ink on the corner.  
The Master claimed that the broken blade half before him was the same sword he had designed all those years ago, down to the distinctly curved tip. The man must surely be dead by now, but the blade was exquisitely crafted, almost as fine as the Master’s own smithing. In order to honor the Strange Man he had designed such a fine blade for, the Master would forge the blade anew.  
For many days the Master toiled over his forge, assuring every strike had the entire force of his heart put into it, that every coal was given a blessing, and that the water he cooled the blade in was distilled a hundred times to be as pure as it could.  
The blade was forged anew, into a smaller but impossibly sharp blade. Not enough blade remained for a Nodachi-styled sword, so instead the Master created something equally fine; a katana, with a blade as crimson as blood. And finally, a inscription was pressed into the blade, one gentle pick at a time.  
“炎を抱く人々のために” it read, “For who holds flame.”  
The Master, finished with his work, was struck by an enigma. He could not find a swordsman worthy of the blade. Every swordsman who came for it, found themselves unable to feel the true value of the sword. They saw it as nothing more than a sword with a blade of reddened metal. Some even claimed it was rusted, and that the Master was trying to sell a broken blade.  
No Swordsman who came for the blade had Flame. The Master himself could best them in combat if they held it, despite his inability to hold a sword with only one hand. Some lasted many seconds, but none lasted a minute. A great General of the Samurai came, to claim this supposed ‘Forbidden Sword.’  
He held it up in the air and laughed at the Master, claiming that the blade held no curse nor had any will of it’s own. He claimed it was a tool, and to prove that it was nothing more than a tale crafted by a failure of a Master, challenged the Master to combat with it.   
The General was disarmed in a moment by the Master, the Forbidden Blade returned to his hands within moments. He showed the Inscription; “For who holds flame” and made the bold claim, in front of the might of the General, that he if he could not wield the blade, then he did not hold true Flame.  
The General, furious at this transgression, ordered the Master bound and on his knees. He raised the Forbidden Blade above his head, and attempted to quench the Fire within the sword in it’s Creators blood. Perhaps it was his fury that let him hold the Flame the blade demanded, or perhaps his arrogance, but whatever the reason, the blade obeyed, the Master was no more.

The General led many battles henceforth, the Forbidden Blade always at his side. Under his guidance, the Samurai legions won many battles, and crushed their enemies beneath their heel.  
However, the blade could feel the Flame fading from it’s Owner, as all flame does with nothing to kindle it. Fights against the General became closer and closer, the enemy blade getting nearer and nearer to the General, until one day, the Forbidden Blade rescinded it’s Owner, and watched through the air as their flame was put out.  
The Warrior who has killed the General had Flame, more than the General ever did. And so the Forbidden Blade found a new Owner.

It is said that the Forbidden Blade passes hands to whoever holds the most Flame, just as the inscription upon it says. The language so ancient that nobody could read it any more, people could still feel the weight of the words inscribed upon it.  
Every beings Flame dies, and with that Flame, so does the Owner’s possession of the sword. It is said that you can feel it within yourself when you hold the blade, can feel how many more battles your Flame could last, can feel the day that your flame will be put out; whether by death, or surrender.  
The Forbidden Blade witnessed many Flames. Some were strong, some were weak, some relied on skill, some on luck. For several hundred years, the Blade passed through right of combat. If your Flame did not compare to your opponents, the blade would leave for them instead. It became a bargain between the Blade and it’s Owner. A mighty weapon that could cut through steel, flesh, and bone in one slice, at the cost of knowing your Death Day. Some took the bargain, many did not. But in the end, the Forbidden Blade passed into the hands of He Who Held Flame, regardless of whether they were friend, or foe.

 

It felt Flame. It heard words.  
“Look, mate, that’s a nice looking sword but I promise you, I’m taking it with your head when I’m done.”  
The Speaker held Flame. Much Flame. His Owner’s flame was bright as well. But not as Bright as the Speakers.  
“Come to kill me, have you?” it’s Owner said, chuckling. His flame dimmed in his arrogance. “I’d like to see you attempt that. I suppose one hundred grand is worth dying for?”  
A bounty, a price. His Owner’s flame flickered again, the Speaker’s flame growled with annoyance. Yet their tongue was quicker.  
“Damn right. A single chop to the head after target practice? I should be paying them for the privilege.” the Speaker said.  
Not arrogance, a ploy. The Blade could feel his Owner’s flame flicker. Fear?  
“Then I’m afraid that privilege will soon be revoked.” it’s Owner said.  
Fear. Definite fear, something Flame should not be so easily possessed by.

There was a yell, or two. The sound of metal being drawn from a sheath. The Blade felt air, and it’s own surface singing with a strike fueled by Fear. When the Speaker’s blade approached, the Blade turned aside. It had no use for an Owner so useless.

“Agh! Fuck!” Reign yelled, falling to the side and clutching the bloody stump where his hand used to be. “That was a perfect counterstrike how the hell did you slip past?!” he screamed, angrily.  
Dune looked at him boredly, then shrugged, flashing a smug smile. “You’re not that good, how about that?” he said. He picked up Reign’s sword. It had an elegant red blade, and some random characters in a language he didn’t understand, nor would he try too. He gave a long, slow whistle. “Nice sword. Not a nick on it.” he said.  
He turned to Reign, who was pulling himself down to his feet with his one hand. Dune held up his sword. “Keeping this.” he said, grinning. Reign growled angrily, pulling a gun with his free hand.  
Dune was already within his arm length before he even had it all the way out, deflecting the gun with his original, silver Sword, impaling Reign through the throat with the Red Sword. “Aw don’t be like that, I was gloating.” he said, slash sideways, then spinning the blade and lopping off his head.  
“Now I have to carry your thick skull home with me…” he muttered, grabbing the angry-faced head by the hair, and kicking open the door he had come in through. Time to collect the bounty.

 

The Speaker had not revelled in it’s beauty. The Blade enjoyed that. It had been treated as it’s purpose; a weapon, used to kill quickly, and efficiently, as all blades should be used. Moreover, the Speaker held Flame. Much Flame, Flame it felt would not go out for many years. His arrogance was not of true self-belief, but rather a facade, an appearance. He could feel the true self of this Owner. They were a being of efficiency, that used weapons as weapons, and tools as tools.   
Except of course, the smoking. The smoking irritated It, particles of ash falling upon it’s shined red surface. But with such a particular Owner, the Blade could work with that.


End file.
